‘Who’s her assigned social worker?’ Elaine asks gently. ‘Do you want to introduce yourself? I’m happy to come with you for moral support?’
I shake my head, push my lips together. I don’t trust myself to speak.
‘Of course,’ Elaine murmurs, clocking my distress in an instant. ‘There’s no need for you to do that. I’m sure he or she will have their hands full with the police today anyway.’
‘And I’ve got a no-names consultation this morning,’ I add, still feeling like I need to explain my reluctance to Elaine. ‘A teacher who’s got some concerns about a child in her class. She’s phoning at eleven, so I need to be on hand for that.’
Hugh looks at his watch. ‘It sounds like we should wrap this up, and I think we’ve covered everything,’ he says. ‘Thanks, everyone, my door is always open, et cetera, et cetera.’ He pushes out of his chair, picks up his pad of paper and a lever arch file, and leaves the meeting room. I watch him walk across to his office – the only one of us to have one – and pull the door closed behind him. I smile at the image, the first I’ve managed in days, then head over to my desk.
My office phone rings almost straight away. It’s only ten to eleven, but I don’t get many calls these days – replaced by fifty times as many emails – so I assume it’s the teacher, Miss Sampson. We had a short conversation last week, but I could tell she was struggling to open up. Teachers know their responsibility is always to the child, but that doesn’t mean they enjoy exposing parents’ shortcomings, stirring up a possible hornets’ nest. That’s why a no-names consultation is a good starting place – a chance for teachers to air their concerns without any repercussions – but they know that anonymity can’t be protected forever.
‘Good morning. This is Rachel Salter.’
‘Good morning, Ms Salter, this is DI Finnemore.’
My heart switches from a standing start to a gallop. I cover the mouthpiece and take a breath. But why am I reacting like this? Because I didn’t name the victim, when I wasn’t even sure who it was anyway? It’s not exactly a crime. At least I hope it isn’t.
‘I wanted to check how you are,’ he continues. ‘And see whether a family liaison officer has been in touch?’
‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Someone called PC Yates.’ I deleted the email as soon as I saw it. I knew Matt wouldn’t like me getting support from the police.
‘That’s good.’ A short pause, then he continues. ‘You might have heard, on the news, that we’ve got an identification for the victim.’
‘I did, yes.’
‘You said you didn’t know her.’
There’s a mix of accusation and disappointment in his voice, but that’s not fair. I didn’t know Amber Walsh. ‘That’s right, I didn’t,’ I say, trying to inject some authority into my words. ‘But I knew her name when the news came out.’
‘Because of your daughter Lucy?’
I close my eyes. But Lucy’s bullying complaint was common knowledge among the senior leadership team at school; of course this connection was going to surface. It doesn’t mean she’s guilty of anything. ‘Yes, that’s right. Amber was bullying Lucy. The school was aware and the head teacher was dealing with it.’
‘I’ve just come off the phone with Ms Munroe. She said that you last spoke to her about the issue on Friday. Because there’d been an incident earlier in the day.’
I pause, starkly aware of the timing. ‘And in that meeting, Ms Munroe confirmed that she was going to speak to the girls’ social worker,’ I explain. ‘She thought that would do the job of stopping them.’
‘And how was Lucy?’ he asks. ‘After Friday’s incident? Ms Munroe gave me the details. I imagine she was very upset, angry too no doubt.’
I choose my words carefully. ‘It was distressing. But she was grateful that Ms Munroe was escalating things.’
He doesn’t respond immediately, and the silence is excruciating. ‘We’re talking to a few students from the school who knew Amber,’ he finally says. ‘And it would be helpful if we could have a chat with Lucy.’
‘Do you really need to?’ I blurt out before I can stop myself. If Lucy couldn’t make eye contact with people at the fair yesterday, I can’t see her coping with a police interview. ‘It’s just that Lucy is quite shy. The idea of talking to a police officer will petrify her. And it’s not like she knows anything about Amber’s life – in fact, she avoided her as much as was humanly possible.’
‘I understand,’ DI Finnemore starts carefully. ‘But this is a murder investigation, Ms Salter, which means we need to cast our net very broadly. I’m not suggesting Lucy is a suspect, but if we can talk to her, we might be able to get a better picture of who Amber was. See if she knows anything that might help. If you bring her to the station for nine tomorrow morning, you can stay with her throughout the interview, and we’ll have her back in school by ten.’
I close my eyes again. I wonder for a mad moment if I should get a lawyer. Would Drew Torrance come if I called him? Throughout it all – the anonymous witness, the CPS deciding they had enough evidence to charge – he always believed in Matt’s innocence. At least he said he did.
‘Of course it is entirely voluntary,’ DI Finnemore adds.
I flick open my eyelids. Lucy doesn’t need a lawyer. She’s done nothing wrong. ‘That’s fine,’ I whisper. ‘We’ll be there.’
AFTER
Tuesday 7th May
Rachel
‘I’m not going, Mum.’ Lucy shakes her head. ‘No way. You can’t make me.’ She drops onto the sofa, starts to pull her knees into her chest – a familiar position for her – then changes her mind and slides them away. ‘Please,’ she begs. ‘Tell them I’m sick or something.’
I drop into the opposite sofa. ‘I can see how talking to the police seems scary, but lots of kids from school are being asked. It’ll be a ten-minute chat, max. There’s nothing to worry about, I promise.’
‘But what if they think I killed her?’
‘Oh, Lucy!’ I lean back against the sofa cushion. ‘You keep saying that, but why on earth would people suspect you? Yes, Amber bullied you. But you were doing something about it via the proper channels. Lucy, you are the kindest, most gentle girl I know. Totally incapable of any type of violence, let alone murder. And the police will realise that as soon as they talk to you.’
‘Do you really think so?’ There’s hope in her voice and I latch on to it.
‘I know so,’ I say in my most confident tone. ‘Just tell them the truth and it will be fine.’
‘Even about being out by myself on Friday night?’
I fall silent. I can’t believe I’m not reacting instantly, saying yes, of course, you’ve got nothing to hide. Is this because of what happened to Matt? Knowing that innocent people can be labelled guilty if the circumstances stack up against them? ‘I don’t think you need to mention it,’ I mumble, not managing to hold her gaze. Then I remember the girl who goaded Milla at the fair yesterday, what she knows. ‘And if they ask directly, just say that you went out for some fresh air at about quarter to eleven, then I found you about half an hour later, and we walked back home together. Just so that DI Finnemore knows for certain that you couldn’t have been on the Ridgeway.’
Her face drops. ‘But I was in the churchyard the whole time, I promise!’
‘Oh, I know.’ I reach for her hand, to reassure her, and realise that she’s shaking. The cuts on her fingers are still healing, and they feel ragged against my skin. ‘You must know that there isn’t one cell in my entire body that thinks you could have killed Amber Walsh,’ I say. But the words ignite a flame of guilt. Because I didn’t feel quite so certain about Milla at the weekend, before news of Amber’s drug dealing filtered through.
‘Will you come with me to talk to the detective?’ Lucy asks.
‘Of course.’
‘And step in if he asks any difficult questions?’
I want to ask what she means by that, what questions she’d consider difficult. But I don’t want to risk losing any ground I’ve made, so I just nod and smile instead. ‘Listen, dinner’s almost ready. I’ve made a green Thai curry.’ The Asian dish is Lucy’s favourite, and I’ve cooked it on purpose because she’s hardly eaten since the incident at school on Friday. Or since I found Amber’s body, it’s hard to tell what sparked her lack of appetite.
‘Amazing, thank you.’ She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and I ride a wave of sadness. Then I smile too – perhaps if we all pretend everything’s fine, it will become so – and I head back into the kitchen.
‘Nearly as good as it tasted in Bangkok,’ Matt decrees, taking another mouthful.
‘Ignore him,’ Milla cuts in. ‘It’s delish.’ She swirls her fork through the dish, mixing the curry sauce with the rice, then takes a large mouthful. Both of my children have a healthy relationship with food, and I’ve always been grateful for that. Except it doesn’t look that way anymore.
‘Are you not hungry, Lucy?’
Lucy looks up, startled, as though her mind was elsewhere. ‘What? Sorry. I guess I’m just a bit nervous about tomorrow.’
‘What’s tomorrow?’ Milla asks, shovelling another mouthful in.
